


Recalibration

by OkayAristotle



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: BDSM, BDSM Scene, Dom/sub, Exploitation Of Triggers, Fear Play, Gun Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pet Names, Total Power Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-03 00:13:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15807399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkayAristotle/pseuds/OkayAristotle
Summary: He says jump, Bruce asks how high and in what restraints.





	Recalibration

**Author's Note:**

> Sitting in my drafts since 2016. Uh? Look? Guys? I feel like this isn't made entirely clear in the fic itself, but this is entirely 100% consensual and part of a well-maintained D/s dynamic. In this, I generally pictured them in a lifestyle (24/7) relationship. 
> 
> Also, Bruce still has some. Issues about his submissive side. One day Clark's gonna fuck that out of him. But yeah, it's all consensual and nobody's getting any spinal injuries. 
> 
> Have fun.

Bruce is good at compartmentalizing. There are clean cut lines in all of his lives. Lines he knows like the back of his hand, and on his worst days, a little more than that. Sometimes they get a little blurred, murky, and half the time he wonders if they’re ever there at all. But when it counts, he finds his lines, the gut feeling that tells him _this_ is where he hits and _that_ is where he flashes a million dollar smile.

This is where he is Batman, and that is where he is Bruce Wayne.

And then there is the _thing_ in between. Bordered on all sides by neat boxes in his mind, a map he knows almost as well as the streets of Gotham by night. A neatly cordoned off area that feels an awful lot like being out in the cowl at noon, sunlight illuminating everything, shattering any pretense he may have had, any control. Bruce never quite knows where to fire a safety line in that area, as though the buildings might crumble under the weight of a breath.

This area is Clark’s favourite.

How he found it, Bruce is still figuring out, even four years in. But he did, and he’d found a way, that first time, to burrow under Bruce’s skin and never quite leave, an infection that won’t stop coming back, despite all the treatment.

He’d burrowed under and dug his nails in and now the marks won’t leave him, won’t heal, and each time they just get bigger, uglier, harder to scratch. Bruce feels sick when he thinks on it too long, and sicker still when they’re left untouched for too long, Clark the only one with the ability to make it _stop._  
  
He just wishes Clark wouldn’t go about it like this. _Never_ like this.

The press of something hard against the small of his back isn’t a comforting feeling, or even something to stir heat in his gut, and instead leaves all the air trapped in his lungs, crystallizing in his airways.

As with Clark, as always, as with all of this — he takes it one breath at a time. If he wasn’t looking, he’d swear puffs of cold air pass between his lips, but all he see is the end of the hallway blurring in his vision. He’s not crying — yet — but something slips free inside him and he sways.  
  
“Kitten.” Clark says in greeting, cordially, as though he’s asking for a dance at one of Brucie’s fundraisers. Bruce supposes he is, but the moves always change and more often than not Clark steps on his toes.

His mouth closes on the next breath, and he holds it, baiting his time until the last moment to rasp out, “Sir.”

The press of something solid against his back becomes harder to ignore and Bruce lets his breath escape him in one loud gust, eyes fluttering closed. He wouldn’t. He _wouldn’t_. Bruce compartmentalizes. Shoves everything he knows of Superman to the back of his head, locks it up tight with everything about reporter Clark Kent and lastly, the undefinable mental mass of Kal is pushed to the back too. Whatever’s left is—

Worrying.

He _would._

He would just like Bruce thought he wouldn’t put him on his knees, or make him beg, make him worship him, make him _addicted._ He would. He says jump, Bruce asks how high and in what restraints.

That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked.

He grits his teeth and knows Clark hears, mouth pressed to the column of his bared neck, teeth pressed against Bruce’s skin faintly. A warning. A dare for him to whimper out the _no_ on his tongue. He lifts his head, the hallway still blurring at the edges, and barks as firmly as he can, “Sir.”

If it sounds anything close to a soldier’s _reporting for duty,_ neither of them mention it.

Clark hums against his skin, taking his time in thinking on his reply, and Bruce hates him for it, wound up tight enough to quiver when his tongue drags over his fluttering pulse point and makes him acutely aware of his heart thundering in his rib cage, heedless of the insistent calm his brain is attempting to force onto the situation.

It all feels a little too dreamlike. Fuzzy and faraway, the colors and shapes too vibrant to be anything but unreal. These past years, it’s become a familiar thing — easy to sink into, like coming home. Still so damn hard sometimes.

The soft cotton of his dress shirt does nothing to stop the cold from seeping in, pressed to his spine as it is, and the thought brings a new wave of panic sliding up his spine. Unbidden, Barbara appears in his line of vision, as real as if she were there, and Bruce balks, standing straighter, and he swears the coiled thing in him is going to snap—

“Take a walk with me.”

Bruce almost laughs. Nothing about this is funny, but the feeling still bubbles through his lungs anyway, burning when he chokes it back. An insistent nudge at his back kills the feeling before it can escape his mouth, and for that he’s grateful. The last thing he needs is to encourage this.

Bruce’s legs move with a mind of their own, and he finds himself making his way down the hallway with a slow, smooth, pace. It’s disorienting, when he can’t feel his feet, or his hands, or even whatever emotion is pasted onto his features. Every nerve ending in his body is connected to the barrel of the gun — Jesus Christ, he has a gun, a _gun_ — and all of them are burning in anticipation of the lead bullet crashing into them with enough force to kill.

If he could make his mouth work, if he could make _anything_ work, he’d say something. Anything. Not that Clark would listen, not that he _ever_ listens. Always looks at him with that smile, so damn alien, and in love with his _kitten_ , like he knows what's best. Usually, he does.

The silence stretches on, the only sound the faintest noise of his bare feet against hardwood floors, and some dim part of him notes that there are no accompanying ones from Clark. There never are. Bruce doesn’t have to look to know that he’s in full regalia, drifting along a few inches from the ground, red cape draped around him.

Bruce wonders if it makes it easier. Keeping what they do just to the marks the morning after on Bruce’s skin, all of the toys and weapons locked back in their boxes, no footsteps left in Clark’s wake. Some days, Bruce is glad for it, glad he doesn’t have to scrub the floors along with his skin, other days he wishes things were a little easier to parse, some sensible part of his brain always trying to connect _Clark_ to the complete _other_ of the man who puts firearms to his back and expects him to trust him.

His feet move, and don’t stumble, even when he recognizes the vase at the corner Clark nudges him to take, and then the painting on the wall, and the scratch in the floor that’s been there as long as he can remember and Bruce feels sick, stomach churning, he feels _sick_ and Clark is bringing a gun into their bedroom. Their _bedroom._

He’d curse if he could muster anything past a mumbled, “This isn’t funny.” that makes Clark laugh quietly like it _is_ and this is bad, this is wrong, this is—

“It’s not supposed to be funny, kitten.” Clark reassures him, and stops the same moment Bruce does, facing the door to their bedroom. “Are you scared?”

He swallows thickly, sways on the spot, and Clark’s warm hand on his hip does nothing to steady him. “You know I am.” Bruce forces out after a long moment, and it feels a lot like slicing himself open, Clark’s fingers sliding under his skin all over again. Like the first time and all the times after that.

“I do.” Clark allows, and the angle of the gun shifts against him, pointing just an inch downward as Clark rises. “I just want to hear you say it. It always sounds so…” he sighs, searching for the word, “pretty.”

His mouth tastes like ash. Staring ahead at the ornate oak door of their bedroom, where he sleeps, where he sleeps with Clark _beside him_. It’s enough to break whatever barrier that’s wormed its way between him and the bubble of panic waiting to burst.

Clark’s good at pressing his buttons. So good, half the time Bruce isn’t sure Clark even realizes he’s doing it. And now he’s thumbing the big red button at Bruce’s center, and he doesn’t have to see his face to know there’s smugness written all over his Dominant’s features when he asks—

“Do you trust me?”

The needle slides through his skin, right to the soft center underneath and with it pops the bubble inside of him. “Yes.” He murmurs, and it sounds distant to his own ears, like he’s talking in another room, some faint conversation blotted out by white noise and the ringing that won’t leave his hears. He repeats, “Yes.” and doesn’t bother mentioning how he gave up the right to say _no_ a long, long time ago gladly.  
  
“Good boy.”

Bruce’s face flinches without his say-so, and it feels a lot like Clark’s just picked at a fresh scab.

One breath at a time. One breath at a time. One breath at a time. If they’re a little too ragged, a little too short, that’s okay. Clark doesn’t judge him for it, not really, not when it’s what he _wants_ , Bruce’s heart in his throat, blocking all sense of will.

“Open the door.” Clark commands, and Bruce’s hands beg to move, the collared _thing_ inside of him begs to do as it’s told and Bruce—

Bruce’s eyes water with the effort it takes not to beg along with it.

The last of Clark’s patience is gone at that, the gun pushing into him with enough force to send the jut of his hips against the door, Clark nosing along the back of his scalp, feather light. It’s a good distraction. It’s a _good_ distraction and Bruce wants to grasp at it, regrets the moment he catalogues the tight feeling in his gut, the coldness of his back, the achingly hard heat between his thighs and the fact that he hadn’t noticed until now is a testament to how easily Clark clouds his mind.

The _thing_ inside of him all but elbows him from the front of his mind and Bruce knows he’s lost, just barely catching himself from grinding into the door when that’s not what Clark wants from him. Hot breath down the length of his nape brings him back just enough to fumble for the door handle, fingers shaking.

Clark hums again, deep in his chest, and Bruce wants to curl up with that sound like a lazy cat in sunlight, basking in the appreciative warmth of it. Everything about him makes Bruce want to _please_ and that’s not often something he feels, but it crowds every other thought from his head.

The room looks the same as it always does. A little messy, lived in, something that’s become theirs, shut away from the world. Clark’s glasses on the nightstand, Bruce’s cologne on the vanity. He can’t imagine bringing a gun into this space. He _can’t_ , not when it brings such violent things with it, marring every carefully cultivated inch of the domestic life they’ve created.

Clark wants him afraid. Gets off on it, in a way. Clark wants to conquer and rule this little slice of the Earth, wants Bruce to be his punching bag and still love him afterwards, still forgive him for the ruthless dictatorship he keeps behind closed doors. Wants Bruce to _crave_ it and God, he does, he _does_ — he asked for it, after all.  
  
He wants to please him and that’s easy.

The bubble inside of him - broken, burst, bleeding - and all its contents have been bouncing around his bones, trying to find a place to call home and Bruce finally lets them, eyes clenched shut while he witnesses on loop the whipcrack of a gun firing, two beats of his heart, and it’s there that it takes root, wrapping itself around every ventricle and spider web of veins, chilling his boiling blood.  
  
Clark licks a dirty stripe up his nape, nose buried in Bruce’s hair, breathing in the scent of his fear and that’s enough to cause tears to finally spill over his cheeks when Bruce forces them open to stare at his feet.

He hates him. _God,_ he hates him. Hates how he crawls inside Bruce’s too-warm skin and palms his erection at every whimper and staggered breath that lurches from Bruce’s lips. Hates how he looks at Bruce in these times and sees flesh and bone and, still, just something to happily torment. Hates how Bruce himself lets it all happen with a _yes, Sir, thank you, Sir._  
  
Clark breathes against his neck, warm and steady, and Bruce hates that too, how he’s never shaken, never doubtful even with a murder weapon pressed to the fragile vertebrate that holds Bruce together. His breath comes only the slightest amount heavier as the sound of the safety _clicks_.

Bruce sobs. “Why are you doing this?”

The gun traces a line from tailbone to neck and down again in the most revolting imitation of a reassuring hand running along his back. “Because,” Clark says, and for a moment that seems all he’s willing to say, repeating the movement. “I have a hunch.”

Bruce swallows down his laugh, “A hunch?” The weight of the gun prompts him to add, “Sir?”

“A hunch about people who like to sleep with monsters.” Clark murmurs. “Specifically, people who like to sleep with monsters like _me."_

He should probably say Clark isn’t a monster. Talk him down. The battered _thing_ inside of him insists that he _is_ a monster, but at least he’s one who patches him up afterwards. Bruce swallows loud enough that he swears it echoes around the room, knocking about in his brain until he replies, “I don’t like this.”

Clark laughs. Clark who rules Bruce’s home, _their_ home, laughs because he _can_ and Bruce swallows the bitterness down at that thought. One breath at a time.

“You’re not supposed to like _it._ Just what _I_ can do to you.”

Bruce makes to reply but Clark pulls the trigger before he can.

If the sky cracks in two he doesn’t notice, eyes fixed to the sight of navy sheets, the bed where they _sleep_ and Bruce is never more vulnerable than when he sleeps, dragged down like a shipwreck in the early hours of the morning where Clark curls tighter around him, wades into the deep with him and fights off every ugly thought and dark memory. Where they _sleep_ and Clark _shot him_ and he wonders if the bullet will pass right through his body like wet tissue, splatter blood on the sheets like he’s a virgin on her wedding night. Or maybe it’ll be lodged in him forever, a bullet with his name on it, like he knew it would be, he just never expected _Clark—_  
  
Pain blooms across his back, curling around whatever’s left of him and he’s _dying_ , there’s no _one breath at a time_ for this, no compartment he can talk this into, no neat box with it’s lock and key. Bruce falls like a puppet with its strings cut, its master staring down at him indifferently, weapon in hand.

On his knees, Bruce heaves in breaths like a drowning man and he _is_ , and Clark watches, feet off the ground, an imperialistic being above him. The chained up, bleeding, _dying_ thing inside him practically _sings._

_Did I please you? Did I please you? Tell me I pleased you, I’ll die without it. Tell me I fucking—_

The barrel of the gun nuzzles against the crown of his head and Bruce keens a wet sound, _do it, do it, finish me, please, I want you to, yes, Sir, thank you, Sir._

This is  _wrong,_ this is _wrong_ , this is _wrong;_ the words repeat in his mind, forcing everything else away, a battering ram that tells him to _move_ and so he does, pushing and pulling with his hands, clawing his way to the nearest wall as though it provides any sense of comfort or relief, as if that puts any distance between him and Clark and what Clark’s _done._ What Clark wants to do.  
  
Some distant, reeling part of him notes that he’s cold. Bruce’s breaths rattle out of him at an alarming rate, fingers digging into the wallpaper behind him, hips set in an angle that look painful even to his unfocused eyes but he can’t feel it, _he can’t feel it_ , panic bursting through him hard enough to knock every last sob out of his mouth, spit dripping down his chin.

Pain blooms and blooms and blooms and Bruce can’t feel a damn thing past every nerve in his body screaming that he should _hurt_ , should hurt how his parent’s hurt, and it feels a little like being kicked in his unfeeling gut when Clark advances on him, calmly, leisurely and Bruce—

 _God_ , Bruce loves him.

He breathes in, steadying, forcing it out as steadily as he can, and he doesn’t need to look to know Clark is still making his way towards him, so strong, _always so strong_ and Bruce wants some of that right now, wants to leach it out of his skin like tangible sunlight. Breathes in again, out, one breath at a time and he loves how he got that from him too, every last modicum of control comes from _him_ and without it Bruce is nothing.

“You’re cute when you’re scared, kitten.”

Tears stream down his overheated cheeks despite how hard his eyes are clenched shut, and if he looks at Clark now he’ll snap, he’ll break and there’s no amount of soft words and bandages that could ever put him back the same and perhaps that’s what Clark wants. Warp him into something entirely _his_ , as if he isn’t already, as if he hasn’t given _enough_ and Clark— Clark wants more. Always more.

The heart in his chest lurches to give more and Bruce makes a nauseated noise.

“I like it.” Clark adds, voice warm, and Bruce’s shoulders rise as if to forcibly drag the rest of him closer to the sound, closer to the heat.

All he feels is cold and Clark doesn’t bother to share any of his warmth, leaving Bruce to feel cold all over, coldest at the point of impact. His shirt is sticking to him, sweat covering him from head to toe, and Bruce’s throat is dry when he heaves another sob, head bowed, and if it looks anything like submission then there’s nobody to blame but himself.

He wants his clear lines again. He wants his neat territories and he wants the cowl, just the cowl, just to clear his head and make sense of the electricity low in his gut, coalescing into something resembling pain-pleasure at his cock, and he almost laughs, the memory of pressing against the door seeming lightyears away.

“What’s so funny, kitten?”

So maybe he’s not as aware of what’s escaping his mouth as he thought he was. Spinal injuries will do that to a man, he supposes.

“You—” Bruce huffs a _heh_ , breathless, “—and I’m—” he dips his head lower, even with tears clouding his vision, still able to make out the outline of his hard-on through his slacks, pressing insistently against his boxers.  
  
“I don’t see what’s so funny.” Clark murmurs, and his voice is lower this time, deeper, _wanting._ Bruce doesn’t know what he’ll do if the last thing he feels is Clark working his way inside him one last time, fucking him until he’s _truly_ cold, crawling inside his skin.  
  
“I think I’d let you shoot me again and still say thank you.” Bruce admits, and if he sounds amused, it’s not his fault. They’re _ridiculous._ Pain blooms, icy cold, and wets his shirt.

“I didn’t hear a thank you the first time.” Clark muses, and Bruce notes that he’s lower to the ground now, almost on his knees save for the hairs breadth of space between his impenetrable uniform and the plush carpeting.

“I think the fact that I let you do it at all is thanks enough.” He rasps, and his whole body tremors.

“Oh, Bruce,” Clark coos, and Bruce can hear the upturn of his mouth as he says it. In on a joke Bruce isn't part of yet. “You don’t need to thank me for not hurting you.”

Silence follows his words for a long moment.

Something bursts in his chest. He feels it as real and tangible as the gunshot wound, as inescapable as Clark himself, something _bursts_ and spills over his mouth, snarling, voice weak, “You’re a _bastard_ , Sir.”

Clark laughs, dry and unamused. “Language.”

Waving the gun in his hand does nothing to bring Bruce’s attention to it, not when his fingers are leaving the indents he’s made in the wallpaper to skate along his hips, to the back of his shirt, poking and prodding and waiting for the sharp lance of pain that _should_ come. When he brings his fingers up to his face, there’s nothing but water there.

Bruce wishes he knew any word, in any of the dozens of languages he’s mastered, to capture the frothing pit inside of him. Murder has never been so close to the tips of his fingers, and carnal _want_ burns in him brighter than he knows what to do with, the beaten slab of _meat_ inside of him curling up under the sun with the realization that it’s been bested, truly and utterly, conquered and branded and he hates Clark but _Goddamn—_  
  
Bruce keens aloud, reminiscent of a kicked dog.

He doesn’t think he has the energy to lift his head, to torture himself with Clark’s bright, alive smile, the one that resembles a razorblade, and the _fucking water pistol—_  
  
“You liked it.” Clark comments, and he sounds smug, proven right, and he’s always so beautiful when he’s smug, it’s enough to make Bruce attempt to drag his head up for the sight but he doesn’t manage, chin hitting into his collarbones sharply. “You’ll like this, too.”

The water pistol - _gun, gun, gun_ \- presses against his navel and Bruce sucks in a sharp breath, bloodshot eyes going wide. Clark pulls the trigger and Bruce chokes, body arching up as though his puppet strings are back, keening again with each breath after it, and there should be blood, should be _blood,_ choking on it, pouring out of him—  
  
“ _Please._ ” Bruce begs, voice weak, and he’s so tired, and pain blooms icy cold, dripping down to the front of his slacks as if in reminder of why Clark is doing this. “ _Please_ , I don’t want to like it—”

“You will.” Clark murmurs, and presses closer.

Bruce’s knees fall apart without hesitation, obscenely wide and there’s no blood left in him to colour his cheeks, no ounce of shame to be wrung out of him after he remembers watching a bullet pass through his mother’s throat the same moment Clark presses down on his member harshly, grinding pleasure out of him.

“You’re still scared of it.” Clark states, and Bruce still nods, a pitiful sound worming around in his ribcage. “Look at you, terrified of an attack dog with no teeth.” He leans forward, and Bruce flinches, holding deathly still when Clark licks a burning line along his damp cheek, tasting the tears there. “Because you know, you know what it really _is._ An attack dog with no teeth is still an attack dog, kitten.”

Fresh tears mingle with the cooling saliva Clark’s streaked across his cheek and he doesn’t bother protesting when Clark thumbs the zipper of his slacks, dragging it down agonizingly slow, freeing some of the pressure on his strained erection, Bruce choking back a noise when he digs the heel of his palm against him.

After that, he rips rather than pushes his black boxers away, and levels the pistol higher as he takes Bruce’s heated length in hand, fingers wrapped tight to the point of pain. It’s drowned out quickly by the muzzle of the gun pressing over his shirt, digging into his nipple, above his heart.

Bruce feels words cram against the back of his teeth, and he hisses wetly before Clark’s even pulled the trigger and _God_ it’s the first time all over again, the first time Clark shot him crashing into the sight of his father clutching his chest, red blooming over his worn leather gloves. Bruce can’t bite back the scream that claws its way out of his throat with knives and sharp edges, body convulsing upwards into the shot in perfect sync with Clark’s firm strokes to his cock, meticulous and in control and infuriatingly precise, dragging pleasure up his spine and it _hurts._  
  
Clark jacks him off calmly, knowing he has Bruce pinned, bright blue eyes fixed on where precome spills from the angry red tip, smearing it down his length with the pad of his thumb. A tortured sound crawls out of Bruce’s chest, mellowing out into a moan.

He feels _raw_ . Soft-raw, chewed-raw, raw like Clark’s been working him for hours, raw like he’s lost every shred of clothes and a few layers of skin too, raw like he wants to beg and he doesn’t have the _energy_ to fight it, to keep his mouth closed anymore, to stop all the blood from pouring out.

 _One breath at a time._ “Please—” he sobs, and whatever comes out next is unintelligible until the next breath, a _chew-me-more_ raw, “ _Sir, please—”_  
  
The pistol moves ever upwards, skating along his collarbones and Bruce’s hips jerk, a gasp coming out on his exhale. The pistol settles along the vulnerable column of his throat, pushing against his windpipe experimentally and Bruce almost pleads for more, hips jerking up again and the part of his brain not submerged in _Clark_ asks what he’s begging for: the experience of his heart beating right out of his chest or every punishing stroke to his cock?

Maybe they’re the same. Both bring the same lightning bolt up hip his spine, spearing him with electricity and he’s never been this _alive_ or this ready to give up.

He stops thinking. He’s not _made_ for thinking, he’s made for this Clark who pushes him right to the edge, and then over. And what he wants is for Bruce to choke on his blood, to endure it, to _enjoy_ it for him.

He can do that.

His thighs fall open wider and Clark makes an absent appreciative noise, fingers never missing a beat in the steady rhythm he’s started, not even when he pulls the trigger again with his other hand, Bruce jerking back hard enough his head hits the wall and his vision goes murky for a moment, coming up for air with a splutter, a garbled, “Thank you, Sir.”

Clark’s fist speeds up, coiling something tight in Bruce’s stomach expertly with every twist of his wrist and he could cry, head lulling back against the wall, barely noticing the tender spot at the back of his skull. Pleasure spikes through him, building, growing in intensity each time and he swears the anticipation alone will kill him, if not the erratic thundering of his heart, too close to unhealthy.

The gun drifts higher, water sloshing inside, but Clark’s hand is steady, comforting in a way Bruce didn’t expect as the offending piece thumbs at his bottom lip, waiting patiently for his mouth to part and allow him entrance. The slide of cold plastic against his trembling tongue shouldn’t be as erotic as it is, and his eyes burn with the threat of fresh tears — when he stopped in the first place, he doesn’t know — and a whimper forces its way out around the pistol.

“I’m going to pull this trigger,” Clark murmurs, index finger tracing the trigger affectionately, “and you’re going to come.”

Bruce should nod. Should bark a _yes, Sir, thank you, Sir_. Should do anything but mewl around the pistol, drool dripping down his chin to his already soaked shirt, hips bucking up brokenly and that’s as good as any thank you he could possibly offer now.

Clark tightens his grip and it’s _painful_ and it spreads, blooming, too hot and his skin is too tight with both of them under it. The pistol fires, Bruce chokes on cold water as Clark’s hand twists at the head of his cock, bringing with it blinding heat.

He hears the tortured, animalistic noise that rips out of him, choking on water, choking on _Clark_ and blood and his own _want_ , and feels himself spill over Clark’s knuckles, and he _knows_ Clark is smiling when he breathes in, out, in-out, one breath at a time.

That’s the only sound he hears for a long time, Clark’s own breaths quiet and only slightly ragged, and he’s hard in his jock, Bruce knows, but he’ll leave it for another time. Bruce doesn’t think he could take anymore, anyway. His bones feel like liquid, and his muscles protest every movement as though they’ve just taken on one of Clark’s longest scenes, the cold sweat on his skin warming with every second he burns up.  
  
He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this alive and, from the way Clark’s large hand shakes ever so slightly on his thigh, he knows the feeling is mutual.

“You did good, kitten.” He praises, voice rough like gravel, sending an involuntary shiver up Bruce’s abused spine.

The beaten, bruised, _pathetic_ thing inside of him preens and normally he’d shove it back, lock it back up where it belongs, but Bruce feels the corner of his mouth tip up, even with the pistol still lodged between his jaws and that’s not so bad.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos keep me writing/posting. Thinking of doing something a little softer in this setting with these boys, so if anyones got any suggestions, let me know in the comments below.


End file.
